


Am I Wrong?

by orbiting_saturn



Series: Drown Out the Din [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Dominance, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's alone and touch-hungry and feeling oh-so sorry for himself, the image of Castiel leaning towards him and pinning him with those wrathful blue eyes is swimming in his hazy thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am I Wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to _Drown Out the Din_

**Know me, broken by my master  
Teach thee on child of love hereafter**

 **Into the flood again  
Same old trip it was back then  
So I made a big mistake  
Try to see it once my way**

 **Would- Alice in Chains**

Shame is his closest friend. Makes it all the more ironic that his fall came from pride. He lives in the dark places now, bleak half-formed memories of copper-rich blood on his lips. Not the sulfur-thick streams he'd sucked from Ruby's, but the live dribbles licked from his own. Weeks pass in the shadow land of his twisted psyche, when reality is kind enough to sneak away.

Sam never lets himself drift here while in his brother's presence, only ever when he has rooms to himself and the quiet stillness is heavy on his ears. He can fill himself with remembered gasps and moans, the phantom sensations of biting nails and blunt cutting teeth. He can lie back on the starch-stiff bedspread, let his legs fall open and eyes squeeze shut, feel the pulse of blood rushing low in his groin.

It's easier now to conjure the memories after recent events, the angel staring him down, looking _into_ him while he made his case for the demon-spawn boy and then reminding him, in plain terms and an anger-pitched tone, that he was a failure. That he had made the wrong choice, every time. His jaw still aches from how tightly he'd clenched up under the assault. The ache spreads out now, dim and lush and lovely.

The lights are out, white and red-tinged glow passing through the crack in the curtains, falling in a slant over Dean's empty bed. The bathroom sink is leaking a steady drip-drip-dripping and the heater's humming. He's alone and touch-hungry and feeling oh-so sorry for himself, the image of Castiel leaning towards him and pinning him with those wrathful blue eyes is swimming in his hazy thoughts. He's hard and full under the press of his jeans and it's been so, _so_ long. But he won't do it. Doesn't deserve the relief of release.

Instead of palming his aching cock, Sam lays his sweating hands against his thighs and grips them tight. The tips of his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise, his knuckles popping and protesting the force of his grasping and clawing. And the distractions start to melt away, the leaky faucet muted by the dull throbbing of blood in his ears, the murky light blacked out by his squeezed-shut lids. All pulsing blood through needy meat and the crawling not-enough pain.

The chiming of his cell phone startles Sam out of his thoughts, his tightly wound body jerking and jumping. He pushes himself into a sit at the edge of the bed, leans over to read the glowing display on his phone. _Castiel_. His breath catches in his chest while he fumbles quickly to smash the tiny 'call' button with his wide thumb tip.

"Cas?" His voice is broken and embarrassingly eager.

"Where are you?" Demanding and direct.

"Same hotel."

There's a pause where usually the call would be immediately disconnected. "Is Dean there?" the angel finally asks.

Sam swallows to wet his suddenly very dry throat. "No."

Though Sam has come to expect the fluttering sound that always accompanies Castiel's arrival, it still shocks a shiver out of him. He appears in the shadows, just the vaguest outline of him across the room.

"Don't speak," the angel commands and steps nearer, bleeds out of the darkness and lets the light skim his features, all pretty angles and cold eyes. "When you speak, you say foolish things."

The instinct to defend himself is easily quelled, though it would be fair to point out that he was right about Jesse. The boy _had_ made the right choice. But Sam understands the angel's tone and it isn't in him to argue the point. Especially when Castiel is advancing towards him with quiet intent.

As he moves forward, Castiel rolls his shoulders negligently, lets the trench coat fall to the floor, shrugs out of the blazer as well. A breath gets caught in Sam's chest, swelling up and lodging a nervous lump in his throat while the angel stalks across the room and stops directly in front of him. They're so close now; Sam is forced to tilt his head back to look up. Castiel peers down at him through heavy-lidded eyes and examines him for an eternity. He can feel the tension coiling tight in the set of his shoulders, burning a path through his gut and slinking low between his legs.

"I don't think I trust you to obey me," Castiel tells him, voice low-pitched and rough. Fast as a flash, one of the angel's hands clamps heavily over Sam's mouth and the other fists in the fabric of his flannel over-shirt. The threads snap in a quick tear, the sound loud in his ear as the arm of his shirt is ripped clean off. "Be very still, Sam."

The hand over his mouth drags slowly away, catching and pulling down his lower lip. When it snaps back against his teeth, it feels bruised and moist in the cool, still air. The frayed cloth of his shirtsleeve is pressed over his mouth, forced between his blood-heavy lips and teeth, dry over the useless lump of his tongue. Castiel reaches behind his head with both hands and ties a quick, tight knot that snags his hair and pulls a few strands from his scalp with a welcome sting.

Once he's fully gagged, Castiel leans back to inspect his work, drags a thumb over Sam's sore lip and the bulge of the cloth. "Yes, I think that will do nicely."

He's not quite sure what to do with his hands while Castiel peers down at him. The urge to squirm is nearly maddening, but he manages to tamp it down, to keep his eyes on the angel while he waits for whatever comes next. The command, when it comes, is such a relief that he sighs through his nose and immediately obeys. "Remove your clothes."

The gag has already sapped all of the moisture from his mouth, pushed in awkwardly and damp while he peels off his shirts. The angel withdraws from him, leans against the wall to watch while he makes quick work of his fly and wriggles out of his jeans. After he toes out of his socks, he lifts his eyes back to Castiel's face and watches intently while he hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs and drags them over the jut of his hard cock.

The angel's face is as blank as it ever is, not a single twitch or tick to hint at any thought or emotion. Just that easy mannequin face, with its stubbled jaw and pursed lips. The eyes track over his bared skin, from top to bottom, lingering here and there. Sam knows he's got a nice body, so it's odd to stand naked in front of another party and know that he's being deemed unworthy. To most people, the beauty of his skin is enough to mask the ugliness that's inside of him. But the angel isn't people, isn't even close.

Castiel steps away from the wall and closes in on him. The way the angel moves is a shocking contrast in fluidity and clumsiness, with limbs that don't work the way he thinks they should. Sam doesn't realize that he's trembling shakily until they are nearly chest to chest, finds it odd to have to stare down at something so much larger than himself.

A hand rises to tickle elegant fingers down the grooves of his chest and stomach, it splays flat against his abs and give a slight shove that sends Sam sprawling back loose-limbed on the mattress. His shock at the sudden change in position is cut short when the angel swings a leg over his thighs and then another, so that he's being straddled and pinned with an immutable strength.

"I haven't the patience or time to give you the punishment you truly deserve," Castiel tells him, leaning down so closely that their lips catch on every pass of each punched word. "Keep your hands at your sides. Don't touch me."

Blunt nails start a scratching trail from his navel, over the bumps and rises of his abs, one scrapes roughly over a nipple. They journey further over the stretched slope of his throat and dig in there, a little threateningly. Then they're sliding around, lacing into the hair at his nape until they clutch and grip tight enough to make him wince.

The angel's free hand pushes between their bodies, fingers wrapping loosely around the base of Sam's achingly hard cock and his eyes drift closed in pleasure. A sharp yank to his hair has them flying open again. "Look at me," Castiel demands.

There's just enough light in the room that he can make out the shadowed plains of the angel's face, but his eyes are a piercing blue, seeing every trapped and hidden thing that Sam tries to bury away. They see every ugly, dark part of him.

Gazes locked, the angel tightens his grip and gives him a slow stroke. Fingertips circling the head, catching and dragging down the moisture of precome. The glide on the next stroke is easier, firmer. A rhythm gets set, up and down, over and over, squeezing at the sensitive ridge, palming him and twisting him. Sam's teeth clamp down on the gag as the pressure starts to build, sweeping stroke, up and down, over and over.

"What would Dean think, if he were to find us like this?" Castiel asks. Sweeping stroke, up and down. His eyes are watering with the effort to keep them open, keep them pinned to the angel's. "With whom would he be most angry?" Sweeping stroke, over and over. His balls are starting to tighten under the onslaught, orgasm just around the corner. "Who would Dean blame, Sam? You or me?"

The answer to that question is a simple one, but he doesn't have to give it. Castiel is taunting him, reminding him of the tightrope he's walking. Even if his mouth were free, he couldn't answer because there's that sweeping stroke, up and down and he's going to come. He's going to.

But he doesn't because the stroking stops, no more up and down, no more over and over. The angel's hand is removed from his cock. He can't withhold the pitiful whimper that slips past the gag. That awful blue gaze keeps him locked up and aching, horribly needy and desperate to get off.

The grip in his hair is as firm as ever, painfully tight, pinning him as Castiel roughly knees his thighs open. He's spread shamefully wide, legs splayed obscenely, heels digging and slipping against the bedspread. The angel's shirt barely grazes the flushed, leaking head of Sam's cock and he's keening and arching up for the friction. His thigh gets slapped sharply for his troubles.

Castiel pauses, eerily still, and waits for Sam to settle down. It's in this moment that he becomes fully aware of how crazy this all is. He's pinned to a bed, spread out like a whore for an angel that has some serious mental issues. It's insane. They are both utterly and completely _fucked_. He could stop this if he wanted. They don't have a safe-word and he couldn't speak it if they did, but he _knows_ that Castiel would hear him if he said 'stop'.

He doesn't.

And when Sam dampens down the shivers wracking his body, Castiel takes that as his cue to continue. The angel brings two fingers to his mouth, sucks them lewdly and pointedly, watches for Sam's reaction. He can almost feel his own pupils dilating with lustful anticipation as those lips close around slim digits, works them wet and pulls them out, glistening in the dim light.

There's no grace or beauty to the harsh shove of those fingers at his opening. They punch straight into him, to stretch and burn, knuckle-deep in one hard pulse. His cock twitches in response and Castiel leans in a bit. There's a shift inside, a pull and drag, in and out, then his prostate is grazed and Sam's back arches under the painful pleasure of it.

Castiel doesn't speak this time, just watches Sam's face while his fingers go to work on him, in and out. They hit his prostate unerringly on every pass and Sam can't contain the way his body is bucking and shuddering. His lashes are fluttering desperately and Castiel's face is hovering over him in flashes. Sam grips the bedspread in his fists and lets the angel ruin him completely. He's going to come. He's going to.

But he doesn't because the fingers are pulled out of him in one slow drag. This time Sam is physically incapable of containing the sob that gets muffled by the bulging gag in his mouth. Tears well up in his eyes and he lets them fall closed, hopes that Castiel will punish him for disobeying because the pain, any other kind of pain, would be a welcome distraction from the aching in his balls.

When the fingers in his hair loosen, Sam braces himself for the pain, but it doesn't come. Instead Castiel sifts his fingers through the sweaty tendrils clinging to Sam's forehead, pets him gently like the startled animal he is. He doesn't command Sam to open his eyes, but tilts his face closer and skims his nose over the rise of Sam's cheekbone, nuzzles in behind his ear and hums. "My marks have faded from your skin," the angel whispers in a hot rush of breath on Sam's sweat-damp neck. "I'll have to make new ones, won't I?"

Sam nods slowly. He'd agree to just about anything at this point. The hand in his hair slides away and Sam feels the palm cupped lightly over his eyes. "Keep your eyes closed," Castiel says and nips once at the lobe of Sam's ear.

The looming heat of the angel's body draws away and Sam hadn't really been aware of its blanketing comfort until it's missing. Castiel doesn't pull away entirely, Sam can still feel him kneeling between the spread of his thighs, warm heat spreading through the scratching cloth of cheap slacks. He's still panting desperately through his nose, tongue pushing against the lump of cloth shoved in his mouth. The taste of damp cotton and just a vague hint of his own sweat. His jaw and hands are aching from where they are furiously clamped down and Sam tries to relax, but can't seem to get his body to respond to his commands.

Fingers circle his wrists slowly. "Let go," Castiel tells him. And now he's able to release his hold on the coverlet. Sam's arms are pulled up over his head and he feels something slap against his chest, he thinks it might be Castiel's dangling tie. Castiel overlaps his wrists and pins them there one handed, just the slightest pressure, a hint at the strength in the hold. Sam smells that kinetic energy on the skin of Castiel's vessel, feels the scent of the angel tickling his nostrils and then suddenly a blunt pressure at his entrance.

Castiel enters him in one, smooth glide. A ragged moan gets caught somewhere in Sam's throat when he's stretched too suddenly. He flutters and clenches at the sudden intrusion, too dry to be comfortable, too moist to tear him. The fullness overwhelms Sam completely, every nerve in his body just narrowed down to that point where he's being violently speared open. Until a soft sigh puffs gently out against his face, tangy-sweet breath spreading over his face.

For the briefest moment, Castiel pauses, just barely allowing Sam to adjust to his girth before drawing out an inch and slamming back in. Sam arches his neck and grunts at another sharp thrust. The angel roughly grips one of Sam's thighs and drags it over his shoulder, opening him more fully to the next battering grind. This new position has the angel's cock sliding over that hidden, sweet spot on every following pass.

"I like this," Castiel confesses against the straining tendons of Sam's throat. The angel's stuttering breath supports his claim, while the harsh shove of his hips skip from graceful to disjointed, that strange juxtaposition of elegant and awkward. "I like how you submit to me, Sam."

The grip on his wrists tightens until Sam can feel the bones grinding together. The fingers grasping the meat of his thigh cut in with bruising force and pain that shoots sensation straight to his straining cock. He can feel warm drips of precome hitting his stomach, the sliding motion of Castiel's dick deep inside and nudging him closer, closer. Sam thinks he might just die if the angel denies him again.

"You're glowing, Sam," Castiel breathes out, rolls his hips sinuously, buried so deep that Sam feel the tickling scratch of pubes against his balls. It's too much. He's going to break. "So beautiful. I wish you could see."

Teeth sink into the skin where his shoulder and neck meet, sucking, bruising lips marking him up. And on the next, long hard thrust Sam shakes uncontrollably and comes. His orgasm rolls through him so deeply that it hurts; the first spurts jerking through his untouched cock are searingly intense. But after that it just flows out of him, in hot pulses splashing against his bunched stomach muscles. It seems to last forever, pulse after pulse, punctuated by sharp, deep thrusts from the angel owning him so thoroughly.

Castiel's fingers release Sam's wrists, peel away from his thigh, the teeth cutting into his shoulder unclamp as he drives impossibly deep and stills. A gasping sound breaks through the throbbing beat of his own pulse and Sam tightens up, squeezes his inner muscles while the angel comes hot and slick inside of him.

The two of them breathe haltingly in the stillness that follows, let the aftershocks of release flow over and between them. Castiel begins to soften inside of Sam, the sticky mess slowly leaking out in a way that should be really offensive, but isn't.

Castiel goes into that gentle, post-orgasmic mode that Sam remembers from the last time they did this. The angel eases Sam's leg off of his shoulder, the shifting of their position has Castiel slipping out in a wet rush. At this point, Sam feels it's safe to open his eyes, blinks away the sting of sweat and watches the hazy blur of Castiel hovering over him.

Deft fingers move to the knot at the back of Sam's head and the gag is removed. He rolls his tongue and smacks his lips, mouth desert-dry and hot. Sam's too fucked-out to be surprised when Castiel's mouth closes over his, slick tongue gliding in to wet Sam's mouth for him. It's their first kiss and Sam's a little disappointed that he's so out of it that he can't savor it as much as he'd like to.

Castiel cups Sam's cheek and slides it down, fingers grazing the achy bruise at the base of his neck. "I must go. Dean will be back soon."

Sam smirks up at him, sucks some moisture into his mouth and asks, "How do you know?"

"I can hear the Impala's engine. He's close now."

"Neat trick," Sam mutters while he lifts his head enough to nuzzle at Castiel's unshaven cheek.

"Will you be able to clean yourself up on your own?" the angel asks and tilts his head, gives Sam better access to suck a kiss into the skin under his jaw.

"Uh-huh," Sam answers. It's entirely possible that he's lying, but he's going to give it his best efforts.

Castiel's hand flattens against Sam's chest, just over his slowing heartbeat. "Have we forgiven each other?" Castiel asks against the shell of Sam's ear.

Sam sighs and nods slowly. "Yes. Please."

The angel's thumb presses into the bite mark he left on Sam's skin, lips press a short kiss to his neck and then the weight holding him down is gone. Sam lets out a stuttering breath in the air left empty by Castiel's disappearance.

The walls of the empty room climb up around him. The bathroom faucet drip-drip-drips. The heater hums. And the soft light falls over Sam's sated, broken body.


End file.
